Monday, August 25, 2014

On Friday, the
day before my late mother’s birthday, two friends group-texted me about making a
donation to the ALS Association, in memory of her name. Although they probably
contributed money when I fundraised for a Walk to Defeat
ALS
many years ago, this is the first time they’ve donated out of nowhere. But it
wasn’t totally out of nowhere, in that I knew it had something to do with the
Ice Bucket Challenge.

So far, this remarkable
social media-driven craze has raised more than $70 million for what has been an
under-funded, under-researched death sentence. Aside from that, what do I love
most about the Ice Bucket Challenge? I no longer get completely baffled looks
when I use the term ALS.

“What’s your mom
have?” people asked the year she was dying, and “How’d she die?” in the
aftermath.

Monday, August 18, 2014

I wouldn’t mind hitting the streets with
a body cam myself. That would knock out the occasionally time-consuming burden
of rooting around my bag for my phone. And then fiddling with the phone for
many seconds before it’s ready to record.

Speaking of that
phone, I’ve been glued to it since last Wednesday, following the chain of
events in Ferguson, Missouri on Twitter. If you’ve only kept up via newspaper
articles and TV news segments, you don’t know the half of it. The most thorough
and up-to-date coverage is on Twitter, by way of briefings, quotes (from peaceful
protesters, unruly protesters, peaceful cops, unruly cops), photos, and videos
provided by on-the-ground journalists and community representatives.

I’m sleeping
like someone waiting for her 9-month-pregnant best friend’s water to break. Everything
else (my day job, drafting this blog post, communications having nothing to do
with Ferguson) feels like a bothersome distraction from my moment-to-moment
updates. The past two nights’ tweeted material has left my stomach in knots,
while making me wish I stuck with journalism.

As a campus news
reporter the first two years of college, I liked year #1, tolerated year #2,
and resigned not many weeks into year #3. I didn’t love my editors and most
stopped speaking to me after I quit (including the one who once asked to see my
inhaler, put it in her mouth, and took a puff before handing it back and strolling
away, as if we knew each other like that), giving me an aggressive version of
the silent treatment each time we crossed paths. But I liked interviewing
people, overhearing people, recording their words, listening to explanations of
why they think the way they do, sorting it all out into a narrative. That’s one
way to become more capable of understanding more than one side of an issue.

The reporters risking
their lives (probably for very little money) to show and tell the world what’s
really happening in Ferguson have been tear gassed, threatened with assault rifles, arrested and released without
charges. With respect for them all, I’ve developed a particular fondness for the
front-liners I’ve mainly followed this week: the Washington Post’s Wesley Lowery, USA Today’s Yamiche Alcindor, freelance journalist Amy K. Nelson, the
Huffington Post’s Ryan Reilly, and BuzzFeed’s Joel D. Anderson, who don’t
look much older than 30.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Not having laundry facilities in your own building
is the pits. Much worse than not having a 24-hour doorman or access to a rooftop deck.The act of doing laundry becomes a production that could transform
you into a frequent hand-washer and air-dryer. It could transform you into
someone who swings by T.J. Maxx for a pair of kitchen towels and 5 pieces of
clearance-rack underwear, to give yourself 5 more days of not having to pull
out the granny cart and push a giant bag (not unlike the one Jolly Old St.
Nicholas slides down chimneys with) around the corner. Or, in my case, around a
couple of corners, up an incline, and across a busy street because the
laundromat around the nearest corner is too chaotic and claustrophobic for
anyone’s optimal psychological well-being.

Making the trip to the laundromat is just that – like
taking a trip. A journey. There’s
packing involved - the detergent, reading material, lip balm, phone, chewing
gum, keys, the coin purse I use exclusively for storing quarters that’s now
falling apart because all of this has exhausted the poor thing too.

If it’s too hot to wear pants and my skirt has no
pockets, the tube of lip balm gets shoved down my cleavage.
﻿

I taught myself how to do laundry. My mom tried teaching
me before I left for college, and I didn’t watch or listen carefully (I may or
may not have offered my signature, “It ain’t rocket science” line, or something
close to it, as an excuse). She’s been dead 10 years this summer and I never
got to ask how her machine-washed clothes smelled prettier than roses without
being as overpowerfully fragrant as many other machine-washers’ finished
products. It doesn't matter how much detergent I use or what brand, whether I include
fabric softener and dryer sheets, whether I’m at a public machine or the
private one she once used - none of my freshly washed clothes have smelled as
good as hers, but every load I do gives me another chance to create a more similar
scent.

Monday, August 4, 2014

A friend of a friend (legit) made the following announcement,
circa 2006: “There are only two kinds of people – those who get walked in on while
in the bathroom and those who do the walking in.”

I say there are three
kinds: the former group; the latter group; and those who were put on this earth
to represent both tribes.

There used to be a Mexican restaurant on the east
side that had a $1 margarita night. That was where you could find me every
Monday after work. One night, about $3 in, I made my way to the bathroom,
thinking I locked the door behind me before proceeding to the toilet. After less
than a minute, the music and voices from the bar grew louder, as if the music
and voices had moved inside the bathroom to join me. “Oops,” said a male voice.
I turned, squinting up. A burly man-child squinted down. Although he later assured
me he didn’t see anything he hasn’t seen before, I haven’t been quite the same
since.

And so the phobia began. Today, there are few things
I dread more than using a single-occupancy public bathroom. I never trust the
lock. But something as manageable as a phobia mustn’t interfere with what a
girl’s gotta do.

I have now walked in on somebody in a single-occupancy
public bathroom. A handicapped bathroom, no less. How jarring to sail through an
unlocked door, wonder why the overhead light is already on, and see another
person turn toward you, even if that person is just using the sink and seems to
enjoy the company.